


My Favourite Book

by ursa



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: All the soft, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bearded Steve Rogers, Blowjobs, Breakfast, Comfort, Established Relationship, Frottage, Homecoming, Light Choking, M/M, New Relationship, Nomad Steve Rogers, Non-Penetrative Sex, Not Beta Read, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, One-armed Bucky Barnes, Recovery, Slight Hurt/Comfort, Soft Bucky Barnes, WE COULD HAVE HAD IT ALL, Wakanda, i blame the cat, kinda new relationship, lots of comfort, no metal arm, self-indulgence at its finest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24167299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ursa/pseuds/ursa
Summary: They need a little tenderness, too. Bucky can say he’s fine and Steve can accept that but sometimes there are some things Buckycan’tsay and things Steve justwantsto give.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 22
Kudos: 134





	My Favourite Book

  
  


It’s half past nine and he’s on his twentieth mile going back home. The humidity isn’t as stifling as he thought it’d be when he woke up to a light drizzle as he prepped for his morning run. It’s not much of a dissonance- Wakandan weather doesn’t stray far from most East African climes and considering the past year of running covert ops along the nation’s borders, the clearing morning mist is most welcoming. 

He walks past the reeds growing near the riverside hut, taking deep inhales as he lets his body wind down. It was a hard run, but not exhaustive. He’s done enough of that in the past months and he’s on leave alright? He’s resting. On vacation?

Starting to feel like it. 

He enters the house quietly, making sure to rub most of the red dirt off his soles on the mat laid along the expanse of the doorway.

These are the things he truly appreciates here. The earth is firm yet giving, perfect for running barefoot, and every material that makes up this hut into a home exudes nothing but comfort. 

It’s paramount after all. Comfort was an ill-fitting suit back then, nostalgia a bitter pill as he marched to the beat of a traitorous command. The shield was his only solace then and it was exhausting. But now. 

Now is him walking to the bedroom he shares with Bucky, his clothes soaked with sweat and rain, heart full knowing they have this little bubble of peace even for just a little while. 

This is him seeing Bucky’s pouty face sleeping, the entirety of his body bundled in the shuka the Queen Mother gifted them after Bucky’s last round of cryotherapy and right around the time they found this little riverside hut at the edge of Wakanda’s southeastern border. This is Steve Rogers helplessly staring at Bucky Barnes at ten in the morning and unable to stop reaching out to pass a finger across Bucky’s face, forehead to the tip of his nose. 

“Ngghh-go away Steve.”

It makes him chuckle, Bucky’s face scrunching into a cute little frown before turning towards him and burying his face on the bed sheet. He’s groaning, unintelligibly grunting about disturbed sleep and rank punks. 

Steve does another pass of a hand, from Bucky’s crown to his shoulder, full on grinning, fond. Bucky continues to grumble. 

He takes a few more moments just crouching at the bedside, finger brushing strands of tufted hair escaping the shuka. It makes Bucky grunt louder and turn around again, effectively burritoing himself in the red cloth. Steve can’t help but let out a soft chuckle. 

He stands up, all the while grabbing at his shirt to strip, humming tunelessly all the way to the shower. 

They’ve been living here, together, for three months collectively. It’s sparing, the moments they can really call living, and Steve hoards every second of it. There are times when he can’t go back at the right time, missions overrunning the estimated schedule, missions popping up back to back. It runs him ragged but Steve knows it’s what’s right and Bucky has never tried to stop him from doing what needs done.

But now it’s quiet, no new threats that needs checking and no brewing troubles that needs intervening. The team’s gone to ground in their respective ways, Natasha and Wanda gallivanting somewhere in South Africa, Sam and Sharon lazing in a boathouse in Lake Victoria.

He’d only been back a few days ago and the pause in action makes him breathe a little easier, shoulders easing both from the rigidity of his posture demanded by the shield’s empty harness and the simple fact that he’s home. 

He feels almost like luxuriating, standing under the lukewarm shower, closing his eyes and letting the moment suffuse into his being. 

Three days ago he was in a truck packed full with chicken feed, cracked sat phone in hand, and wearing clothes and armor he hasn’t washed in a week. Two days before, he was trudging in a literal jungle after getting unceremoniously dropped off by the truck driver and twelve hours after that he was rushing through the Border Tribe’s checks, swaying but on his feet. Yesterday, Bucky had to drag him to the kitchen and coax him to eat at least a bowl and a glass of something for lunch before helping him to bed. 

He was mechanical the entire time, tired to his bones, and a whisper of fatigue telling him maybe it’s time to _really_ stop.

His eyes snap open and he takes a deep breath.

He thinks of Bucky’s guiding hands when he stumbled onto their doorstep, quiet in his relief, steadfast as he helped Steve out of the mud-crusted armor. Bucky’s quiet nowadays, all gregariousness gone but his warmth remained and Steve is unequivocally grateful for that. He’s more soft spoken now, almost timid but Steve firmly believes this is Bucky’s way of taking his time, of coming to terms that there is time. 

And then there are these moments.

He shuts off the shower and grabs one of the multicolored towels from the shelf above the sink and haphazardly towels himself down. Winding it around his waist and tucking it tight to his hip, he comes back to the bedroom, damp and smelling much less like he ran around the marshy end of the river. 

Bucky’s still rolled up like the reddest and fluffiest burrito, now with his head poking out, his rat’s nest of hair curling haphazardly across his face. He’s firmly shutting his eyes, as if Steve doesn’t know he’s already awake. 

“Hey, honey,” Steve mumbles, dipping down for a penguin kiss, brushing his lips on Bucky’s nose. It makes Bucky’s face scrunch up, head tipping up to meet Steve’s lips for a quick peck. He hums, eyes slitted at Steve, still at the edge of sleep and trying very hard to stay there. 

It makes Steve grin at him and hover at him closer, winded towel around his hips hanging on for dear life. He buffs at Bucky’s head, rubbing his beard on Bucky’s cheeks earning him a gentle punch to the stomach. “Stop it punk, I’m sleeping…”

“Oh yeah? You sleep talking now, huh, Buck?”

He can’t stop grinning at Bucky when he’s like this, soft with a lot of give, half awake and not hesitant to push back albeit halfheartedly. Steve keeps nuzzling him, trying his best to gather his burrito Bucky into his arms, tangled shuka and all. 

Bucky keeps squirming, too, until his trapped arm shoots out of the shuka and unbalances Steve off of him. Steve falls back, barely catching himself from face planting into the polished earthen floor, wheezing as he stops himself from full out cackling. 

“Steve, what the hell?!”

He’s still chuffing as he rights himself up and stops, Bucky’s half tangled form catching his undivided attention. Bucky’s naked from the waist up and he is struggling to get out of the shuka, face almost morose in frustration. He makes a face. “Steve.”

Steve is so damn fond of him, hand to God. He’s pouting at Steve, not cognizant of the feebleness of his glare. He’s looking up at Steve under his eyelashes, as if acting coy but Steve knows better. 

He knows better because it’s been over a week since they last saw each other and before that was an ephemeral two and a half days and even before, well. They’ve been here three months collectively and not once were they together for any time longer than a week. It makes his chest hurt so sudden. His grin slips into a small frown and he kneels on the bed retucking the loosely unraveling towel around his hips before reaching out for Bucky. At the same time Bucky raises his arm, pout turning into a frown and all Steve could do is reach further, wrapping Bucky into a tight embrace. “Hey, Bucky. I missed you.”

Bucky just grunts again, face warm on Steve’s neck, body lax in Steve’s arms. “You hungry, Buck?” His chin rests on Bucky’s left shoulder, just as Bucky tightens his right grip around Steve’s naked shoulders. 

He can feel Bucky’s assent, the day old stubble rubbing on Steve’s neck, some of Bucky’s hair catching in his mouth making him splutter. He lets go for a bit, studying Bucky a little more, hands feeling their way across his best guy’s body. Bucky’s warm from sleep and Steve can’t help but rub his hands down Bucky’s neck, his sides, his hips, to his chest. “You hungry?” He asks again as he cups Bucky’s face with both his hands. Bucky slits his eyes at him again before smacking his lips and nodding lightly. 

“Alright.”

He hugs Bucky close, lifting him, almost off the bed and Bucky scrambles up, right arm winding on Steve’s neck, and legs eventually wrapping around his hips. It’s a rarity, Bucky allowing Steve to manhandle him, the physicality of their current relationship stilted yet intense, the misgivings of their shared past washed out by the trauma of their separation. Steve savors it and he doesn’t ask. He won’t, not when Bucky’s slowly growing to be happy without being in the fight, not when Steve still keeps going back in. 

He carries Bucky across the room and into the kitchen, towel around his hips still surprisingly hanging on. 

They reach the kitchen island where he carefully deposits Bucky on the counter, stepping away to look Bucky in the eyes. “We got eggs, yeah? You want some coffee?”

Bucky’s comes around slowly as he steps away to prepare their breakfast. He can hear him shifting, hand brushing his unruly hair back down, deep breaths and soft yawns loud in the quiet of their home. By the time Steve’s got the eggs simmering in a pan full of tomatoes and peppers, Bucky’s lucid but still barely, his right arm wrapped around himself. “What time did you wake up? Went for a run?”

He slides a few slices of bread on the hot griddle and brings out the coffee grounds. “Around six? Six thirty? Yeah. Needed to get my blood pumping.”

Steve turns to Bucky with an empty mug and a plate in either hand. “You slept well?”

“Somewhat. How’s the mission?”

Bucky’s still pretty bleary-eyed and Steve can see smudges of the old Bucky in his bright eyes, echoes in his gravelly morning voice, rote politeness in tone. Steve smiles at him and wags his head a bit and shares interesting bits in the last mission, tries to inject a little life in the otherwise boring escapade.

The mug is topped with coffee and the plate filled with shakshuka. He plops the bread slices on top and gets a _heathen_ in undertone from Bucky. Steve sticks his tongue at him before ripping the bread into manageable pieces. Bucky’s got the mug in his hand, sipping and resting it on his pink-clad thigh, alternating with Steve to demolish the plateful of tomatoes and soggy bread. 

Steve rips up the last of the bread, sopping up the last dregs of shakshuka off the plate. He looks at Bucky, now looking more awake but no less pouty. “Last bite?”

Bucky opens his mouth for him and Steve feeds him the last bite of savory bread. Bucky’s tongue catches on Steve’s thumb and he quickly closes his mouth, mindfully chewing on the morsel. Steve can’t stop staring. “Steve, what.”

“You- you got something,” he murmurs as he reaches out to rub the side of Bucky’s lips. Steve’s breath is caught and his hand stays put, grip light on Bucky’s cheek, almost cradling it. 

Bucky’s staring back at him, eye to eye, until he looks down at his mug, a light blush dusting across his face. His face is so warm in Steve’s hand. “Hey Buck, look at me, yeah?”

Bucky’s fingers are restless and he’s biting and licking his lips while glaring at the unassuming black mug on his thigh. “Bucky-“ 

Steve takes the mug from him and sets it aside. 

“You haven’t been sleeping well have you?”

He still won’t meet Steve’s eyes, his unoccupied hand going to his left thigh as if trying to shield himself. Bucky was never the sharing and caring type, moreso when it comes to his well-being. It’s what made their relationship tick after all- the unending need to ensure each other’s safety and good health even if they’re suffering themselves. And right now, it’s Steve’s shift. 

“Bucky, please honey, you been sleeping well?”

Bucky sniffs a bit and a low key sense of alarm is building in Steve. Throughout his entire cryotherapy he’d only seen Bucky actually cry and it was out of pain. “I’m fine, Steve. Jesus.”

“You are clearly not fine, Buck, you’re tearing up-“

He takes a deep breath and blows it out. The smell of coffee lingers between them. “I just- I was tracking the hours Nat gave us.”

Bucky’s throat clicks as he clears it, composing himself. Steve looks at him, patient, his hand having migrated to the joint between his left shoulder and neck, rubbing soothingly. “She said it was a milk run, Steve.”

Steve really needs to talk to Nat’s newfound stance on absolute transparency. He sighs moving into Bucky’s spread thighs, pressing his forehead against his. He tries to murmur to Bucky how the entire mission actually went but Bucky cuts him off, pulling Steve to his neck. “I’ve been having those dreams again. The weird ones. You know? I can’t really remember what happens, still. Just- it keeps waking me up feeling like I was back. Awake. Inside that fucking icebox.”

His voice is shaky and Steve holds on tighter. Bucky still has troubles with memories and weird dreams, as he put it, are worse than the usual nightmare. Weird dreams unsettle him and in the mornings that follow, they tend to push Bucky into heavy and unshakable silences. It makes Steve ache knowing he wasn’t there (again, goddamnit, _again_ ) when Bucky wakes up unmoored in reality. 

“But seriously, Steve, I’m fine.” He says it softly, a shaky assurance. Steve’s grip turns to almost bruising as he hauls Bucky off the counter forcing his legs to wrap around him again. “Not from where I’m standing Buck.”

His voice is muffled against Bucky’s clavicle and Steve hears him huff, his right arm wound tight across his shoulders. It’s an awkward shuffle with Bucky decidedly keeping Steve’s face buried, curling the bulk of his body around him and trusting that Steve can carry him comfortably.

Bucky’s hold doesn’t deter Steve as he confidently carries Bucky completely off the kitchen island and pivots back to their bedroom. The dishes can wait. 

  
  


-

  
  


They need a little tenderness, too. Bucky can say he’s fine and Steve can accept that but sometimes there are some things Bucky _can’t_ say and things Steve just _wants_ to give.

And right now, Bucky’s reticence needs coaxing and Steve’s more than willing to do everything for him. Bucky’s dead weight in his arms and he considers it a good enough sign that he’d be responsive to Steve’s lead, willing to let Steve love on him. 

They’re back in the bedroom, Steve lowering Bucky slowly back onto the bed letting wayward feet pull down at the towel clinging to his hips. Bucky’s hard pressed to let go, needing Steve’s hands to guide his placid body down on the sheets. Steve’s got Bucky under him, arms framing his face, thighs brushing thighs. He looks at him and he kisses him, trailing his lips all over, on the meeting of Bucky’s concerned brows, the apple of Bucky’s pink cheeks, the tip of Bucky’s nose, his chin.

It makes Bucky groan and Steve’s naked weight settles heavily on him. Steve continues to trace a line of kisses from Bucky’s jaw to the soft give of his throat, rubbing his face all over the pulse point, moving and nibbling on Bucky’s left collarbone. Bucky’s squirming, breaths heavy and legs splaying as he allows Steve to press him deeper into the mattress. 

Steve’s got his arms bent now, chest rubbing against Bucky’s sternum and he could hear the rush of air in Bucky’s lungs and he’s so, so _thankful_. 

He’s mouthing down in the middle of Bucky’s chest when he hears a growl and gets yanked up by the hair and the bruising kiss Bucky plants on him is electric, lights a line of fire along his spine. It makes him thrust his hips against Bucky’s and groan into his mouth. 

Bucky matches him move for move, body undulating underneath him and Steve can feel it, Bucky’s hard on shifting against the crease between his left thigh and leg. 

He pushes up a bit, Bucky chasing his lips but he presses a hand down Bucky’s chest, panting, his free hand pulling at Bucky’s silk sleep pants and tugging until it comes off completely as Bucky’s ass lifts off the bed. Steve could get drunk on Bucky’s whimpering under him, right arm scrambling against the hand on his chest. “Steve, come on- oh.”

Steve’s humming as he palms Bucky’s cock, thumbing at the base and index finger stroking under his balls. He pulls back, still stroking Bucky, moving his hand to palm Bucky’s thigh, encouraging the splay of his legs wider. 

Bucky’s hand is back on his hair, grasping, pulling Steve back down into another kiss. He’s plastered all along Bucky’s front, rubbing, cock insistent alongside Bucky’s. 

There’s no finesse and the softness Steve was going for has ramped up into a sort of desperation, pouring all the frustration of his absence into the touch Bucky’s demanding from him. And by god will he give it, offer it up, his heart on a platter, kiss Bucky’s mouth until the man can devour his entire being. 

He can hear his name between Bucky’s teeth, in every kiss, he can hear the unspoken need as his hands find their way under Bucky's body, fingers digging deep in the wings of Bucky’s shoulders. 

Bucky’s gasping and Steve pulls him upright, forcing Bucky to straddle his hips. 

He’s a magnificent sight, a glowing being atop his thighs and Steve can’t focus his eyes, breath caught, his gaze skittering from Bucky’s face, his chest, to the faded scars spider webbing on his left shoulder. His grip on Bucky’s waist is bruising, he knows, and Bucky just lets him. 

Hair falls like a tangled black lace curtain around him as Bucky levers himself up, kneeling instead, calves bracketing him. “Tell me you were safe, please, Steve.” It’s a whispered plea in the small space between them and it’s so much, Steve thinks he’s choking. 

He can feel the pressure of Bucky’s hand on the base of his throat, heavy and unrelenting, as if he can shake the reassurances out of Steve that he was okay, that it really was just a run-off-the-mill mission, that it took longer because of the worst logistics, that he was coming back, my god, he can’t not come back. 

Bucky’s face is grim, the clench of his jaw, desperate, and Steve can feel the white-knuckled tremor of his grip. He pulls Bucky down to bite at his lips and soothing them with his tongue murmuring, “I was, I am, I’m here now.”

It makes him ache hearing that piteous noise Bucky makes against his lips. He can see Bucky’s eyes shut as he takes what he can from Steve, grinding down and nails scoring red lines on his back. 

He pulls Bucky down, letting them grind, his hands skittering across Bucky’s waist, his thighs, his ass. When he squeezes his cheeks, it makes Bucky yelp, rhythm faltering. 

“Steve, fuck!”

The sweet sting of Bucky slapping his shoulder gets him pushing him back down on the bed. This time he goes straight down, kissing and licking, nipping at Bucky’s chest, soothing his nipples with his thumbs. Steve reaches his navel, tongue dipping at the creases of Bucky’s muscles, leaving wet skin in his wake. 

When he suddenly swallows Bucky down, his guy nearly bucks him off. Bucky’s overwhelmed, his sole arm flailing for purchase, knocking the pillows off the bed, and exclaiming a prolonged _fuck_ that trails into a tiny whimper. He keeps Bucky’s hips down, determined to keep going, making sure not to choke. 

Steve hums around the length in his mouth, tongue swiping on the underside of Bucky’s dick before pulling off with a pop. Above, he can see and feel Bucky panting, bruised chest heaving.

He lays his head on Bucky’s thigh, hand skimming up to Bucky’s throat, thumbing every fading bruise in wonder.

“You wanna keep going, honey?”

Steve got a little intense somewhere between the first kiss and the last one, Bucky’s seeming responsiveness spurring him on. He heaves himself up to look at Bucky eye-to-eye, just to be sure.

A moment passes, Steve hovering over Bucky as their sweaty bodies start to cool. Bucky’s eyes are shut, mouth parted as he tries to catch his breath. Steve waits, continuously rubbing circles on Bucky’s neck. “Buck?”

When Bucky’s eyes open, they flash accusingly, “What the hell do you think?!”

If he had a collar on, he’s pretty sure Bucky would be fisting it and shaking him like a feral kitten. He barely has any time to react before Bucky’s flipping them over and heavily straddling Steve, face set in determination, naked body primed for action. 

Steve may have been a little too careful. 

The first real night they had together was an awkward fumbling under the sheets that made Steve feel all two hundred and twenty pounds of himself, clumsy hands rougher than they ought to be. And Bucky, for the life of him, let him just _take_ , welcoming Steve’s unrestrained need as if it was the only way to remind them that what they have now is real. 

Bucky’s not reluctant to take now. Bucky’s grip on the base of his throat is just tight enough for Steve to breathe shallowly and it’s overwhelming, the way Bucky’s frotting against him. It makes his hands scramble against Bucky, fingers slipping on Bucky’s sides until he finds purchase on his hips, squeezing the soft muscle in his hands. 

“Fucking. Take it. Honey- ”

“Fuck Steve, so fucking- ”

Steve’s panting, sweat beading on his brow and Bucky’s no better, his torso glistening as he grinds down at every thrust up Steve does. 

“Steve- I, I can’t- I need- ”

And Steve gives it to him, pulling at Bucky’s ass tight, Bucky falling unto him until their bellies trap their slippery cocks between them, and he keeps his hold tight, hips twitching until Bucky gasps into his mouth and comes. 

It’s in the lingering scent of caffeine, the salt of Bucky’s skin, and the taste of Bucky in his mouth that pushes him over the edge himself. 

Bucky’s boneless on top of him, head lolling to the side, dry lips catching at his beard. Steve is panting, his hands twitching on Bucky’s ass. 

A moment passes over them and Steve helplessly grins at the ceiling. Bucky suddenly chuffs right at his ear and kisses his cheek. 

“I missed you, too, you fucking punk.”

He’s home.   
  


**Author's Note:**

>   
>  _And that is why we'll always make it  
>  How I know your face  
> All the ways you move  
> You come in, I can read you  
> You're my favourite book_   
> 
> 
> Title from Stars’ ["My Favourite Book"](https://bit.ly/2yVxU4n) aka the most romantic song imho which I would sing unprompted when bored or sad or thinking about romance. All this was made possible by [that cat video](https://bit.ly/3cyP1I6) and everyone’s encouragements. That was nice. This was great practice, too. Made me remember how hard it is to write something actually self-indulgent that makes some sense (I think).
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> Edit: Updated the rating. And some words. And the tags! Yeah.


End file.
